Eppur Si Muove
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Love Hurts tag: Sam is an obsessive-compulsive freak who sees Dean through big brother-colored lenses. That doesn't always mean he's wrong.


**Eppur Si Muove**  
**K Hanna Korossy**

It was all kinds of amazing how much junk could accumulate in the car when they were on the road.

Dean fished for the last elusive bit of trash under Sam's seat, arm stretched to the max with his cheek mashed against her freshly vacuumed floor. Almost…there, got it. He frowned as he pulled out the offender: when was the last time either of them had used breath mints?

Not like Sam hadn't needed some after that "onion pie"—seriously, calling that "pie" was just heresy—he'd had in that little British pub he'd talked Dean into. A place that sold something called "mushy peas" was not the kind of restaurant Dean Winchester wanted to patronize. But rock beat scissors, and at least they'd also had "steak pie."

Mmm, they should grill up some steaks tonight…

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was muffled; he was probably half-buried in the trunk. A couple of thunks confirmed it, and Dean rolled his eyes as he tossed the mints out of the car. "Be careful with my baby," he called back automatically.

They were actually out in the garage mostly because of Sam. Ever since Dean had died—a lot, apparently—in Florida that one year, Sam had appointed himself Organizer of the Trunk and kept it clean with OCD efficiency. Yeah, Dean hadn't failed to see that connection, either, and so he hadn't argued—much, anyway—even when he sometimes had to search for an herb he wanted, or put back the grenade launcher _again _because Sam kept taking it out. Not that Sam hadn't told him exactly what was where, many, _many_ times, but Dean only listened to the important parts. And snuck back in the stuff _he _thought was important. They certainly had the room now that they had actual rooms and didn't need to keep all their belongings in the car.

And wherever Sam went to work off some of his post-hunt tension, Dean followed. Wasn't like Baby couldn't use a good clean and detail. Letting him keep an eye on Sam was just a bonus. Or, honestly, letting Sam keep an eye on him. His little brother had taken Dean's confession about Amara in stride, had even promised that he would handle it. But Dean wasn't nearly so sure about himself as his brother was.

Another wince-inducing thunk from the trunk. "Where's that knife?" Sam continued.

Dean snorted as he moved the bench seat back into place—just far enough back that his legs could still reach the pedals but Sam's weren't accordioned—and stood up, dusting off his hands. "You're gonna have to give me a little more than that."

"You know, that one with the gray handle you like." More sounds of movement from under the trunk's lid. "The one you got from Bobby?"

It took about two seconds for the light to dawn. "Uh. I sorta…broke it."

"What?" Sam's tousled head popped up, looking ridiculously like a gopher.

Dean cleared his throat. "I broke it."

Sam reared back. "You _broke _it? That was a carbon-steel blade."

"Yeah, well." Dean's eyes darted to the garage floor. "Turns out Amara's made of something harder."

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Sam stepped around the back of the car to face him. "You broke it on _Amara? _When was this?"

Dean grimaced, but he really should've told Sam before anyway. "Uh, right about when you started your meet-and-greet with Lucifer." He didn't miss his brother's flinch at the name. "When I was talking to Amara in that field, before the angels showed up to do the whole smiting thing. I tried to stab her. The blade shattered like it was…glass or something." Shame rolled through him all over again at the memory of that encounter, the kiss, his weakness.

Sam blinked, falling back a few inches to lean against the Impala's side. "So…you tried to kill her at Crowley's place, then actually stabbed her last month."

"I didn't _stab _her," Dean protested. "She—"

"Right, she's bulletproof. Knife-proof, whatever." Sam shook his head. "Man, don't you get it? This isn't about using the wrong weapon. This is about you having gotten past her…influence or whatever and attacking her, _twice_ now." He crossed his arms. "And you're still seriously worried about being too 'weak' to take her down?"

Dean opened his mouth, closed it again. Well, yeah. He hadn't been himself, had struggled against the way his mind fogged with…desire? calm? bliss?…whenever he was with her. And he hadn't killed her. Not even close. She hadn't even been upset with him.

Sam's hand closed on his shoulder. "Dude. You already did it. If you need to, you obviously can."

Dean shook his head. "You can't…you can't rely on me, Sam." It was like pulling fingernails to admit it. "She gets in my head…"

"I know," Sam said earnestly. "And I told you, I've got this. I can do it. But you could, too. If you needed to, if we find the right weapon, if it's about watching my back, you could. You _have_."

He wasn't sure he believed that. But…Sam had a point. Dean remembered thrusting that blade without hesitation, thinking only in that moment that if she succeed in becoming "everything," there would be no Sam, no Baby, nothing Dean cared about. It had sliced through his stupor, even if the blade hadn't.

Maybe…maybe.

"I liked that knife," was what Dean actually said.

Sam's fingers flexed, then dropped away. "I'll get you a new one."

He gave Sam a hard look. "We're gonna end her."

"Yeah." And Sam freakin' smiled. "We are."

Okay, fine.

**The End**


End file.
